A day of temples: Pashupatinath and Bodhnath

Arriving back in the city after eight days of trekking is derailing. Thin, crisp Himalayan air is viciously replaced with black billows of pollution, spurting from buses, tempos (three-wheeled taxis) and motorbikes; brilliant green and blue backdrops have dissolved into a melting pot of dour greys, browns and synthetic shop signs; silence, but for a rushing river, has given way to engine drones, incessant horns and the hammering of new hotel construction.

After a couple of days for adjustment, we walked through the eccentric streets of Kathmandu out to the Pashupatinath Temple, one of the most sacred Hindu shrines in the world, on the banks of the holy Bagmati River.

The temple is surrounded by a bustling market of Hindu stalls, selling luminous marigolds, prasad (edible gifts to be offered to the deities), perfumed incense, rudraksha beads, conch shells, pictures of Hindu deities, tika powder in rainbow colours (to be applied to the foreheads of worshippers), glass lingams (representations of Shiva) and other essential, religious paraphernalia.

Stepping inside the temple area, I was immediately transported back to Varanasi, India, aside the Ganga. As in India's holiest city, there were would-be guides launching into stories; sadhus (holy men) loitering on the stone steps, festooned in religious decoration to make tourists with cameras go weak at the knees; and scatterings of puja offerings being swept into the river.

All around us were richly-ornamented pagoda houses, sacred linga, or phallic symbols, of Lord Shiva, as well as gold-plated roofs and silver-coated doors. Like Varanasi, religious pilgrims and sadhus travel all the way from the remote areas of Nepal to visit this sacred sight and choose to be cremated on the banks of the Bagmati.

As soon as we stepped foot on the ghats, we were aware of a collective, tangible silence radiating from the crowds. We stopped walking. Down by the river's edged, two bodies, wrapped in orange and crimson cloth, were just visible in the throng of people. These would later be joined by a third - they were the three Nepalis who had perished in the plane crash just two days earlier - returning to the city after a early-morning, tourist flight around the Himalaya.

We watched quietly from afar as the mother of the pilot wailed and fainted into the funeral crowed. Further along the river, funeral pyres were already burning from earlier ceremonies. The thick smoke created a sombre haze over the whole, terribly sad, scene. We walked away, not wanting to stand and gawp at the grief of these three families any longer.

As we walked past photo-posing sadhus and groups of Hindus muttering mantras, Pashupati started to flood as the heavens opened. We figured that the three pilots were making their final mark - rivers started rushing down the stone steps and twisting in between stone shrines. We sheltered inside one and watched the skies wreak havoc all around us. We wondered what had become of the funeral parties as the Bagmati river began to swell with fresh rain water.

When the rain subsided slightly, we waded through the water to continue on to Bodhnath, one of the grandest Buddhist stupas in Nepal. Passing through the peaceful suburbs of Kathmandu, we watched children playing cricket and street-side games. It was strange to see such gleeful happiness after witnessing a torrent of grief beside the burning ghats.

Once at Bodhnath, we joined the throngs of Buddhists and monks in the clockwise march around its perimeter, dipping in and out of the soft notes of Om mani padme hum from nearby bead shops.

Within a couple of hours and just one or two miles apart, we had been witness to two such meaningful ceremonies, proving that religion is the pulse that keeps Nepal's heart beating.

Langtang trek: landslides, an earthquake and yaks

With our beastly journey to Syabrubesi behind us, Med, Luc and I set out on the trek through the Langtang valley with a spring in our step and the colours, views and scents of the valley made for an energising climb in the sunshine.

The forests were full of trees that seemed to be dripping with moss and ferns, the river was raging with glacial-melt waters, the birds and other animals chatted away oblivious to our

intrusion, and even the air seemed to take on a new, pure quality.

The national park is sacred, so no animals can be killed within it, preserving it as a rich, natural paradise. Trekking through the forest-lined valley on the first day, we saw long-tailed, Gray Langur monkeys and the native species of, to quote, "a goat-like deer". We walked past flowers, bamboo and even thick plants of natural marijuana!

Unfortunately, with all that nature surrounding us, I did have a run in with a leech (on my back) within the first couple of hours. But, despite their sluggish, fanged demeanour, they are harmless and leave just a small, red mark in their wake. However, if you'd tried to tell me that at the moment I discovered its fat little body on my back I probably would have told you otherwise!

Unlike the leech, the monsoon season had left its mark on Langtang. We clambered up and down slippery pebbles, rocks and boulders, scrambling over toppled-over trees, jumping over destroyed parts of the trail and carefully shuffling over unstable logs and rocks to cross waterfalls. It filled us with a sense of adventure, but it was apparent how vulnerable the mountains, and their inhabitants, are at this time of year.

We arrived, happy and sweat-drenched, at Lama Hotel (2340m) - a strangely named settlement that would be our resting place for the night. After an afternoon greeting a few fellow trekkers in the sunshine, including Andreas and Marit who we'd met the day before, we huddled inside the spartan, wooden dining room of our lodge - 'Friendly View'. The sun dropped behind the mountains and the room was lit with just two, faint bulbs. Conversation about that day's trekking buzzed and we all relaxed in the hot glow of the log fire.

Suddenly, the lodge and the ground beneath it started shaking. Gripped with fear, I held on tightly to the bench I sat on. Another group's porters rushed into the room and a few people started scrambling, terrified, to the door. Landslide, I thought, my heart pumping in my chest. But soon the shaking, lasting just 30 seconds, came to a stop and we all stood in suspended disbelief. Earthquake, I then thought, and I was right. I went outside, feeling a little claustrophobic now in the small lodge, and asked the hotel owner what had happened.

News crackled in on the mountain radio, first that the quake had been in Tibet, and later that it had in fact been in Sikkim, India, which borders Nepal in the east. Shaken, quite literally, we went to bed wondering what else the Langtang valley would have in store for us.

Over a breakfast of cement-like porridge, we heard the sad news that a few people had been killed in Kathmandu, where the buildings are held together with tangles of electricity cables and broken rocks on roofs. Later, we would learn that even more had died in Sikkim and many more still missing there, in the very same mountain range we were exploring.

Clouds had started to roll in and there was a patter of rain as we walked through thick forest on the second day. The river crossings became a test of agility and in my mind that day was the picture of the American girl from the poster who had gone missing 18 months before on the same stretch of the trek.

Although we had climbed up to over 3000 metres and had emerged from the forest, the mountains were still soaring high above us, disappearing into the mist that now blanketed the valley. We arrived in Langtang (3300m) and found the old village to be an enchanting collection of stone and wood-carved houses with more stone walls and pathways winding between them.

Seeking shelter and warmth at the 'Shangri-La' lodge, I spent the afternoon looking after the family's four month old baby, who was layered in over-sized clothes and seemed to enjoy my English nursery rhymes.

The small lodges up the mountain are wooden

and basic and, as the temperatures drop in the evening, you can find yourself sat around the fire with the family who own the house and even in the kitchen, watching them preparing the evening meals. The mountain folk of Langtang are made up of three main ethnic groups: Tamang, Hyolmo and Bhotia - our experience was that they were all in some way related to each other, with many brothers and sisters in the different settlements along the trek.

The men of the mountain wear anything from herringbone vests and faded shirts to moth-eaten North Face fleeces and faux-leather jackets. Those who dutifuly serve as trekking guides are easily identified by their crunched-up toes, made so by years of gripping rough mountain trails wearing nothing more than thin, rubber flip-flops.

Contrasting with the muted browns of the men’s garments, the women of Langtang are wrapped in brilliant dresses that paired colours and patterns that would be incongruous in the western world, but somehow here seemed to match perfectly. They also wear the traditional brass earrings of the valley people - heavy, the earrings are supported with loops of pink or red wool. Their hair, that has never been cut, is usually tied in a single, long, shiny braid down their back.

Like the local people, we started to adjust to going to bed early and rising not long after dawn. But that night I had an altitude-interrupted sleep and awoke with a the start of a cold. We trekked slowly upwards, through the mist. I started to get a bad headache, which can be a symptom of altitude sickness. After an hour sat in a wooden hut nursing a cup of tea, Andreas and Marit, both medics, advised Med and I to go back down to Langtang to err on the side of caution. So, just half an hour from our next stop, we descended for another night's acclimatisation at Langtang village - hoping we would meet the others the following day.

With my head feeling a bit clearer the next day, we set off again up the same path. Thankfully,

the mist had lifted somewhat and we could see the view of the valley for the first time in two days. Each little settlement we passed was preceded by a line of stone mani walls, inscribed with Buddhist mantras to guard the towns and offer safe travels to those that pass. We ensured we passed them to the left as is tradition and enjoy spotting large, hairy yaks dotted all around.

Higher up, past the tree line, lies the village of Kanjin Gompa (3800m), named after the white,

sloping walled gompa (small, Buddhist monastery) that lies at the junction of the Lirung valley with the Langtang Valley. Approaching the settlement, we were surrounded by massive rocks protruding out of the now faint breaths of mist. We picked our way around the lodges of the villages, with kitchens blowing out fire smoke, finding where our three trekking friends were staying.

It was so very cold in the village and, wrapping myself up in borrowed blankets for the afternoon, I suffered more flea bites than I dared count. Still, the Tibetan bread and yak cheese (from Kanjin Gompa's cheese factory) made up for it - as did the sublime sunset view of the white mountains that towered over us on all sides.

The next morning it was still clear and we assembled at 5am to start our summit up to Kyimoshung (4640m). Still suffering with a cold, I was about 80 plods behind the group, my lungs and legs feeling heavy in the thin air. I struggled up sand (a reminder of just how new the Himalaya are) and eventually, exhausted, reached the top.

It was a luminous morning up high in the mountains, with sharp, iced peaks, outlined in blue every way we looked, including Langtang Lirung (7227m). We stood right next to a glacier that looked as if a river had just frozen - suspended and rugged. The brightness was almost blinding and we enjoyed the heat of the sun on our backs as we took in the panorama.

After three days of mist, we had earned this view.

The Langtang valley gave us pine forest, shifting clouds, swift mountain streams, ribbons of waterfalls, rugged landslides, glaciated mountains giants, grassy meadows strewn with flowers and yak cheese to share with new friends. We made our descent down feeling thoroughly content, steeply up and steeply down the labyrinthine valley.

"The road is the goal"

"The road is the goal" - a beautiful travelling thought shared by our new Norwegian friend, Andreas. However, for this blog entry, I shall use a bit of artistic license. For this tale, "surviving the road is the goal" paints a more vivid picture of what is to come.

At 7.30am on Saturday 17 September, Med, Luc (our new, French ami) and I squeezed ourselves into child-sized seats on a bus hurling north from Kathmandu to the tiny settlement of Syabrubesi, the end of the road and the start of our Langtang valley trek. The valley lies just south of the Tibetan border and boasts surrounding peaks of up to 7227 metres - and would be our adventure playground of the next eight days.

There is no such thing as a straight road in Nepal, and flat roads are hard to come by. We climbed up and down, and down and up, the green hills beyond the Kathmandu valley, weaving and shuddering, this way and that, taking the blind corners at heroic speends and producing strangled horn noises every few seconds (in case the person at the back was in danger of getting

40 winks).

As the bus gathers steam, we think ourselves lucky enough to have a seat (albeit cramped, damp and designed for bum-numbing discomfort). The aisle is full of people standing, their

bodies swaying constantly with tilt of the bus, and the roof is full of people and cargo. I could see more pairs of feet above my head than I could count before we'd hit another pothole and I would be catapulted three inches out of my seat. Concentrating on hugging the seat in front of me was my only option for five long hours.

A shrieking circus of people, music and movement is unravelling in front of me; we're starting and stopping, people are sprinting after the bus, jumping on to the handles on the outside, climbing up and down from the roof while it's moving and hauling on cumbersome tyres or ancient canvas bags filled with onions.

It's one thump on the metal exterior to stop the bus and two thumps for go - sometimes we'd join in when the driver and ticket collector appeared to be time-wasting or trying to get more customers onto this full-to-the-brim steel trap.

Early on in the ride, a man lost his balance and pushed his dirty, canvas bag against my arm. I sniffed at the now damp patch on my arm, and gagged. It would soon transpire that there was a chicken in the bag, which had by now been swung up into the narrow luggage rack opposite me. That stunned chicken, with its unbearable stench, would haunt me for the rest of the journey. It's frightened, glassy eye kept peering down at me as it opened and closed its beak in silent protest.

By 10.30am, it's time for Daal Bhaat. As we hopped of the bus on our shaky legs, I watched a Nepali man spray vomit down the side of the bus. Sick count to date: three, and counting - I had unfortunately already witnessed someone throwing up on the seat opposite me. I was in danger of joining the count, so I opted out of Daal Bhaat and mentally prepared myself for the next

journey hell-raiser that was surely around the corner.

It's 1pm now - we've been moving since 7:30am

but travelled less than 70 miles because the road (track) is a series of poorly maintained hairpin bends hugging steep mountain faces. And we make endless stops to cram more people on the top of the bus - I wince each time another person joins the circus. But now we judder to a halt and the bus is leaning forward, rear end in the air. There is shouting and chaos - it seems the road, in the monsoon rains, is no longer passable. We pile out: the 60 plus locals, the bags of onions, the two tyres and, of course, the chicken.

With no instruction or idea, we walk in the same direction as everyone else. The mountain is shrouded in mist but we can feel, and occasionally see, the immediate danger of the sheer drop at the side of the deteriorating track.

Wading through streams and stumbling over large, loose rocks, we are eventually beckoned onto the back of a heavy duty truck. Us, and the 60 locals from the bus. I had at least five people leaning on me and the chicken was still watching me from inside one of the rubber tyres I knelt on. Med eventually had to squat as the small edge of the truck he had claimed early on was taken over by men and children who leaped onto the truck as we jostled along the rubble track. We held onto each other.

We knew we were still quite far from our destination - but stopped asking questions as we were by now afraid of the answers.

The truck journey was a painful 30 minute ride through the mist and the locals who grabbed onto the side of the truck seemed oblivious to the laws of balance - hanging off the cliff edge side so the whole truck had an unnatural lean downwards.

Soon, the breaks screeched and we were piled off once again. A few steps more and there are some more buses in our path. We are ushered on to an already full bus. There's only one place left to go - the roof! I join the scramble up the flimsy ladder to the roof of the bus and am grateful to find a place on the mountain side of the bus next to Luc, but Med has to make do with an unsteady throne of wet tyres.

I soon get that same, stomach-tightening whiff. I say "chicken?" to the man sat next to me and he picks up the bag lodged under his legs. "Chicken," he grins. Somehow, the poor, wretched thing is still alive.

And so begins the worst part of this journey. The bus takes on very recent, active landslides caused by the swell of the monsoon at speed and my grip on the sharp edge of the roof tightens. The heavens open and a sheet of dusty tarp is pulled across the roof-dwellers, which acts as more of a uncontrollable sail than a shelter. With our centre of gravity now sitting really quite high, when we hit exceptionally rough patches of rocks, the whole vehicle begins to sway dramatically. We all scream - and we can hear echoes of screams from down below.

Yet, I am strangely comforted that, from atop the bus, I can envisage my survival jump when the bus slips off the track and down the deathly drop. I count myself as one of the lucky ones that, in the last moments, my fate would be in my own hands.

We chat to the locals to avoid thinking about the rain and the danger. I learn the days of the week in Nepali, and, when more swaying ensues, start chanting them louder and louder, much to the amusement of my audience of locals.

When I think my fingers can't grip on any longer, we reach an army check point for the Langtang National Park and we have to get down from the roof - a temporary arrangement that the army pointlessly enforce for a 20 metre stretch of road next to their base. With many of the locals now at their destination, we join the inside of the bus and meet Marit and Andreas, from Norway, who couldn't believe we had been on the roof all this time.

After being charged again for the journey to Syabrubesi (arguing gets you nowhere on Nepali buses), we then went over the worst part of road so far - the huge, back tyres of the bus nearly giving way to the biggest landslide yet. Once again, I closed my eyes, crossed my fingers and gripped onto a little silk purse filled with good luck charms from friends and family, and the St. Christopher my Grandad carried with him in India, which I also took there myself last year.

And it worked. We were now on a good bit of road again, the chicken had departed at the town

of Dunche and we were soon chatting and laughing, still pumping with adrenalin.

Naturally, the bus couldn't take us all the way to Syabrubesi, that would be too easy. So, we got off and walked the hour to the village as the sun went down - arriving in darkness, but arriving nonetheless.

So, it took us 11 hours, 60 locals, 23 stops, 11 landslides, 5 trekkers, 3 bruises, 3 vehicles and 1 very smelly chicken.

"Surviving the road is the goal."

Poon Hill to Gandruk trek: 3 Brits, 2 Aussies and a crazy man

The vast majority of the Shangri-La countryside in Nepal is still inaccessible by road, hidden behind ridges and up steep valleys. These tracks are used by pilgrims, trekkers, traders and locals, and this paradise land, without wheels or engines, was where we were heading to next.

We decided to 'warm up' our legs (in preparation for a bigger trek to come) on a five day trek in the Annapurna region - looping from Naya Pul to Gorepani and then east to Gandruk. We were dreaming of seeing a panoramic sweep of Himalayan peaks - but it would prove to be almost as illusive as the rhino in Chitwan.

Med, Tom and I started the trek alone, without a guide or a porter. Despite an early setback of a vast, still-tumbling landslide at the foot of the mountain range, the winding paths proved easy to follow and the locals were always friendly. Old men and women, with lined faces and gorgeous smiles, would waggle their fingers to show us the way and we soon felt a million miles away from the Nepal we had experienced so far.

The trek offers spectacular mountain scenery along

with charming villages inhabited by the Gurungs and Magars (two of the many ethnic groups of Nepal), dense rhododendron forests full of birds and deep, sub-tropical valleys, all set below the mighty Annapurna range.

On the way up, we passed small villages and settlements,

often getting a glimpse of people trying to eke out a living on small parcels of land. Men ploughed with oxen and, with shouts and guttural throat noises, encouraged the cumbersome beasts to turn on small stepped terraces the size of postage stamps; colourfully-clad women walked up and down with parcels to trade, often barefoot, pressing the soles of their feet against the rough track made from heavy slabs of rock that must have taken an unimaginable amount of time and energy to assemble up the steep faces of the landscape.

Yet, the most enduring image of the trek has to be that of porters, moving up the steep hillsides carrying enormous loads, heavier than their own body weight. With the thick strap of the conical wicker baskets tight against their foreheads, their backs bent under their burden, their feet clad often only in flip-flops, they moved slowly up the mountain, carrying bags for organised treks or supplies for isolated villages. Seeing this everyday, we didn't moan once about the comparatively small loads we carried.

We greeted everyone we met with "Namaste,” pressing our palms together at our heart for the customary, Nepali (and Indian) greeting. Twig-thin men with grizzled beards and red-rimmed watery eyes would look out from beneath their topis - the traditional headwear of Nepal that resembles a soft, crushed fez - and returned our greetings with broad, gap-toothed grins and

deep, lingering drawls of "Namaastaaeee."

We kept walking through the lush green, terraced valley, following the path of the river, climbing up steep steps until we had to rest to catch our breath and find a pump to replenish our bottles. Tea houses, perched precariously up the steep valley, provided a welcome break on the way - and of course a place to re-charge our trekking batteries with hearty helpings of Daal Bhaat (the Nepali staple meal of lentil soup, rice and curried vegetables - of which you are usually given two, or even three, enormous helpings in one sitting!) and hot chocolate.

Our first afternoon and evening was spent in the

quaint village of Ulleri, filled with friendly children who lined the streets waiting to 'high-five' us on arrival as if we'd just completed a marathon (well, almost). The tea lodges were almost flimsy, cobbled together with bits of plywood, but the showers were hot, the beds fairly comfortable and the food was tasty and laden with carbs.

After peeling off our boots and socks and washing away the day's layer of dirt and sweat, we sat outside with views of the surrounding mountains. A man carrying a large, chicken-filled coop on his back caught our eye. We wondered, "is there anything they can't carry up the mountain?"

Cards games, book reading and map studying are the staple, post-trek activities. And with the arrival of the black, night's sky, it's off to bed early by the light of one bare bulb (if you're lucky).

On the second day, after an early-morning start, we stumbled upon the crazy man of Ulleri, locked away in a wooden room on the main thoroughfare out of the village. Mountain whispers from the few trekkers we had encountered the day before told us he tried to shoot people in the village and has been imprisoned for five years, left without food. I looked into his dark, bewildered eyes and noticed his wild, dusty hair and half-believed the stories. It seemed impolite to ask the locals for the truth and we didn't wish to linger in his gaze any longer.

As we climbed further up the valley, we became more enclosed by thick jungle and steep, canyon walls. The second day was a fairly short climb up to reach the beautiful village of Gorepani, which stands at 2800 metres above sea level. Gorepani is the spring board from which to reach Poon Hill, an Himalaya view point that we were to summit early the next morning.

Gorepani brought us the pungent smell of drying mushrooms, a "bonza" pair of Aussies, Damo and Sarah, and our first western-style toilet of the trek - such luxury!

We awoke the next morning to drizzle and fog, but decided to carry out the ascent to Poon Hill regardless, which stands at 3210 metres. At the top, the sunrise promises views of two of the Himalayan giants, Dhaulagiri (8167 metres) and Annapurna I (8091 metres), along with a maze

of other white peaks.

But for us, there was no view, just a thick fog soup that dampened our faces and our spirits. So, I'll skirt around the pre-dawn climb, freezing temperatures and slippery steps we endured. I guess it would make us appreciate what was to follow all the more.

We bid farewell to our trusty companion, Tom, who had to

hotfoot it down the mountain to catch his flight home, and embarked upon a day's trek through the deepest river gorge in the world, wading through jungle with our Australian friends. The canopy of trees let through chinks of light but it was a unrelenting, damp day to our next stop:

Tadepani.

And here came our just deserts. After a murky day, the dense blanket of cloud started to dissolve, revealing celestial mountain crests that glowed in the light of the full moon. The peak of Machapuchare (6993 metres, known as the 'Fishtail' peak, which is forbidden to climb as it is regarded as holy - that night a local man pointed out the shape of the tiger god that resides within it) stuck out like a glowing white tooth in the sky, and later, Annapurna I (8091 metres, the tenth highest mountain in the world) revealed itself too - it seemed in touching distance from our lodge balcony. We had no idea they had been so close all this time, choosing this moment to rise out of the fog and gleam down on us.

The next day we made our way through dense, tangled jungle, filled with trees that had trunks covered with moss and plant matter. There were more leaches than before (Med and I someone survived, unbitten - the Aussies didn't fair quite so well), and we stumbled upon little maggots sprinkled on a huge section of the jungle floor. It was humid under the canopy, and we were relieved to arrive at beautiful Gandruk.

With a medieval vibe, Gandruk commands stunning, valley vistas over terraced rice paddies and tea plantations. We settled in for the afternoon, playing endless games of cards (which, truth be told, I usually lost). The next morning, the mountain range once again put on a stunning display for us. Huge snow-capped peaks - ethereal, supreme, heavenly - dominated the morning valley. Our smiles didn't do this view justice - it's a totally natural high that sends you soaring.

Spellbound, on our final day we descended back

down to Naya Pul, stopping for endless trails of mountain ponies, adorned in colourful costumes and heaving heavy loads up to the villages.

The trek was a physical challenge and we played witness to an ever-changing show of cloud and light, mist and mountain. The mountains were playing 'peak'-a-boo with us, but were even more spectacular for it.

Giddy with memories of the mountains, our hearts were now set on our next trek in the Langtang region, but our legs would need a few days of gentle recovery.

Seeking Shangri-La

Shangri-La, a fictional earthly paradise first described in the 1933 novel, Lost Horizon, by British author James Hilton. This mythical, Himalayan utopia - a permanently happy land, isolated from the outside world - is almost within reach in Nepal.

Draped along the greatest heights of the Himalaya, Nepal is where the ice-cold of the mountains meets the steamy heat of the Indian plains. It's a land of yaks and yetis, stupas and Sherpas and some of the best trekking on earth.

Thousands of backpackers and jet setters alike grab their hiking boots and make their pilgrimage to this rugged, land-locked country in search of this mystical kingdom.

Around 64% of the country is covered by mountains; one third of the total length of the Himalaya lies inside Nepal's borders and the country claims ten of the world's fourteen highest peaks.

Yet, Nepal is not just a mountain climbing, apple pie eating Shangri-La. It's also one of the poorest countries on earth. So, many visitors, drawn to Nepal by the promise of adventure, leave equally enchanted by the friendliness and openness of the Nepali people.

The 'New Beautiful' family

What truly made our time in Pokhara was stumbling across The New Beautiful Cafe, a modest, street-side restaurant that I miss dearly already. It is a must for anyone craving home comforts and the warmest family welcome in town.

The owner, Shambhu, had us at "hello", offering us discounts on the menu prices and grinning

broadly at us. And then the food they could cook, it was unbelievably good, dishes from all over the world, all made completely fresh to order and with such love and devotion. We were hooked.

Shambhu's gentle wife, Parbali, would welcome us by taking our hands and calling me "Sister". Her younger brother, Samip, spent hours beating the boys at Bagh-Chal (a brilliant game of goats and tigers on a grid). Then there were their two adorable children, Pranisha and Pranaish, who we played with. Pranaish, the little boy, kept coming back to me to play

with a set of small wheels that once belonged to a toy truck. So contented was he with this broken old thing; so giddy with excitement when I rolled them over to him, making "vroom vroom" noises.

On our last evening with them, we bought them all presents to thank them for their gorgeous hospitality. Wide-eyed, they thanked us endlessly for the gifts and insisted they treat us to breakfast before our long trip to Kathmandu.

At breakfast, they pushed mountain fridge magnets into our hands and gave us a little family photograph of themselves. Such beautiful and kind people, this is the Nepali way.

Pokhara: a naked man, a lightning boat and a snow-capped sunrise

After our time in Chitwan, which was scheduled to thrill, we were looking forward to slowing down the pace in Pokhara - one gateway to the Himalaya kingdom.

We immediately fell in love with the peaceful rippling of Phewa Lake (Nepal's second largest), the towering mountains that wrapped tightly around it and the horn-free streets of laid-back Lakeside.

"Perfect", we said, "just what we need." Anyone would think we had been on the road for months, not days, but we greedily indulged ourselves with some peace, quiet and home-cooked wonders.

And then came the naked man. After a hearty, rooftop meal with our new friend, Tom, we ambled back to our hotel, taking in the many shops and restaurants presenting their worldly goods, the giggling groups of children darting back and forth and the friendly dogs on the block meeting up, probably exchanging stories of finding tasty food titbits outside restaurants. Caught up in this state of mild distraction, I didn't notice the naked man until I'm stood just one metre away from him. The naked man of Pokhara (I'm sure he must be infamous by now) did not look at us, as we stood silently agog, he just carried on walking down the street, holding a piece of dirty cloth at his side (that could have been put to better use!). "Tarzan", a local guy threw at us and pointed, "he Tarzan."

We saw naked man three more times during our stay. Still naked, still carrying that same piece of tatty cloth.

The next day, the three of us hired a rowing boat for an afternoon on the lake. The

sun was streaming down and the still water unveiled reflections of mountains as we sailed toward the Hindu Barahi temple, built on a small island in the lake. We spotted monkeys jumping through the thick jungle terrain on the far lakeside and let the screeching sounds of cicadas fill our ears as they sang their song to celebrate the heat of the day.

Lulled by the scene, it took us a while to notice the dark clouds rolling in, and we watched as waves began to crest on the lake, rocking our humble rowing boat as each one slapped against its wooden side. "No panic", we thought as we started to paddle back. And then came a great clap of thunder and lightning forked in the near distance - just a couple of miles away. So then the panic kicked in and, after a small setback for Tom while he put down his oar to reason with himself that we were the highest point on the lake, the boys rowed us to shore at speed, battling against the wind and waves that had crept up on us. Dry land had never felt so good!

Unruffled, the following day we were back on the water, to hawl ourselves up to the Peace Pagoda - a beautiful Buddhist stupa designed to provide a focus for people of all races and creeds, and to help unite them in their search for world peace.

While Nepal is overwhelmingly 85% Hindu, the areas bordering Tibet and specific parts of Kathmandu and Pokhara offer colourful glimpses into the rich Tibetan Buddhist culture. Many Tibetans fled their native land during the war in 1959, just ahead of the Chinese army, which destroyed thousands of monasteries and killed hundreds of thousands of monks as they advanced. Tibetan refugees have made Nepal their home, selling hand-strung beads and prayer wheels, introducing delicious momos into hundreds of restaurants and piping out the serene Buddhist mantra Om Mani Padme Hum from music stores in tourist areas. Despite their past turmoil, Tibetan's have hearts of gold, and the brilliant gold of the peace stupa glistened down on us as we took in the views of the lake, Pokhara and the mountains that enshrine it.

During our lakeside chill out, we also managed a pre-dawn taxi ride to the top of Sarangkot, a high green hill at the northern end of Phewa Lake that separates Pokhara from the Annapurna Himalaya range. We did not get off to a good start: rain was hurtling down on Pokhara, we were locked in our hotel and the taxi driver was 25 minutes late. But we were determined to see sunrise, and so we ascended in our rattling taxi, woken up by the aroma of a burning clutch. The

taxi could only take us so far, so we picked our way up the rocky path by the dim light, gasping for breath in our urgency to reach the summit for sunrise.

At the top, there were still some clouds, but we could see the snowy peaks crisply and we watched as shades of orange, pink and purple filled the sky and reflected off the white-capped mountains. Beneath us, the river valley glistened a rich, dewy green, and a few low-hanging clouds clung on to the hill-tops. Just beautiful!

The perfect few days to prepare us for our first trek, Nepal style.

Chasing rhinos

As quickly as we had been flung into the colourful consciousness of the city, we were bumping and bouncing our way out, from pothole to rubble, on the five hour tourist bus to Chitwan National Park. At this stage of our trip, we very much felt like tourists, not travellers, but we were hopeful that once we had done the 'guidebook greats', we could don the baggy trousers and head scarves and find our travelling mojo (updates on this transformation to follow).

Famous as one of the best places to stalk wildlife in Asia, and one of the last places to allow tourists to go on foot (at your own peril), Chitwan translates as 'heart of the jungle' and we had high hopes of spying on one-horned rhinos.

We were blessed with an animal-guru of a guide, friendly, round-faced Tilak, and a great group of people who were staying in our lodge of relaxed luxury just outside the park. We shared laughs, beers, banquets, mosquito bites and sunsets during our 3 days of safari seclusion - and we sweated in unison in the balmy heat of the Terai region of Nepal.

There are many ways you can enter the national park, each coming with a reasonable price tag and standard T&Cs: 'No animals guaranteed, ok!'. So you pay your fee in blind faith and hope for the best.

As it's the end of the monsoon season in Nepal, the grass in the park is up to 8 feet tall so the best, for us, was spotting the one-horned rhino. We could be spitting distance from a leopard or royal Bengal tiger and be totally oblivious. But for the portly rhino, there's no hiding that big bottom and we'd heard recent reports of spottings and chasings - we would take either!

And so, we started our adventure in the 932 sqkm of sal forest, water marshes and rippling elephant grassland in a narrow, wooden canoe. Greeted by a few basking crocs, kingfishers and wild deer, we sailed down the silty river with the taste of anticipation (and bug spray) on our lips. Mistaking a few buffalos for rhinos, and rustling trees for monkeys, we then took to the jungle on foot - a new, thrilling taste of fear as Tilak instructed us to run for our lives if we came across a charging rhino. No such luck though - a few more deer, some fat furry caterpillars and an unwelcome leech.

Following a quick diversion to the elephant breeding centre (not recommended for animal lovers), that evening we were jeeped to a local, Tharu village to watch a group of very agile local boys and men perform the traditional Tharu stick dance, spiced up with fire, a man dressed up as a very convincing woman and a giant, dancing peacock. At the end, the girls from our group, including myself, got up on the dusty, wooden stage to join in. It was fast and sweaty as our throbbing feet slapped on the hard floor, but the energy and excitement was infectious and we laughed and danced until it hurt! After a few high fives with the performers, we dragged sweat-drenched bodies home - buzzing with contentment. But still, we dreamed of rhinos.

4.30am and Tilak is pounding on our door - it was jeep safari time! We flew down the quiet roads to get to the park, watching the pink sunrise over the mountains in the distance. Keeping quiet along the track through the park, we saw lots of spotted deer and stags, shuffling wild boar and nimble monkeys - but the rhino hopes remained, like an absent guest at this wild party. Still, the sight of the snowy peaks of the Annapurna skyline as we drove out of the jungle was more than consolation - we went from dense forest to iced mountain views in seconds.

That afternoon it was elephant safari time, something I wasn't completely sure about - how happy could an elephant be with 300 kgs of human on its back? But I went with the jungle swing of things, and didn't want to miss out on the precious rhino spot. We sauntered through the jungle and marshland atop this incredibly powerful, and sadly, incredibly tame animal, and spotted lean samba deer, stags and a quick-footed barking deer. There was also the not so rare breed of noisy Chinese tourists who surely frightened off all the other wildlife with their bellowing calls of "Which country?!"to neighbouring elephant groups.

So, that was our chance over, no rhino. We had only seen the prints of a mother and baby. It was becoming as mythical a beast as the little-seen, Himalayan snow leopard.

At 5.30am on our last morning in Chitwan, I toyed with the idea of having a lie-in while Med and some of the others went out on Tilak's bird walk. But, never a person to miss out, I threw on some clothes and headed out still full of sleep - despite gulping down a coffee with three teaspoons of sugar. We squelched and slipped along the muddy river bank, noone really over-enthused but the sightings of herons and other avian sightings. And then came a call that jolted us all out of our sleep-starved state: "RHINO!" "RHINO!" COME!" - and we all scurry after Tilak to see if it's really true.

There, just 20 metres away on the other side of the river, was a enormous male rhino, cooling off in the water as he munched his way through kilos of breakfast - fresh, long grass. We took in the amazing view, grinning at each other, and then back at the rhino. At last! Tilak showed us, over and over again, our pathway to run should the rhino start to charge. But Mr.Rhino seemed happy enough in the water, watching us from time to time before continuing to chomp away with that powerful jaw of his. We even got the delight of his big bottom, all nobbly and notched like compacted pebbles on a beach.

So, we chased down our rhino, and thankfully he didn't chase us. Dhanyabad, Chitwan!

Pepsi and puja

Caught up in the enchanting whirlwind of Kathmandu, it's easy to forget the fabric of the country we're in. A 6am taxi ride to the bus station offered just the quiet exposure we needed to step back and see it, without keeping one eye peeled for motorbikes and street hawkers.

The first Europeans and Americans didn't enter Nepal until the 1950s, but now there are thousands of shops selling western food, clothes and shampoo. Religion is very much at the forefront of almost every Nepali person's life, but on the way home from giving puja to the gods, many can be found flogging singing bowls and necklaces to pale-faced tourists. Traditional motifs (including the swastika, still used in Buddhism and Hinduism as a symbol of good luck and refreshingly free from the corruption of those Nazis) are sprinkled with international football emblems and clothing brands. A mountain shack with a hole-in-the-ground toilet has a bottle of Harpic in the corner. Nepali families in their old, crumbling homes crowd around the latest T.V to watch American wrestling.

That morning, I watched a shoeless woman with her puja bowl amble past a large Pepsi advertisement, and right next to it sat an ageing man on his haunches, playing with a mobile phone. The capital city has none of the glossy, high-rise buildings and air-conditioned metropolis found in India's biggest cities, but there's certainly an aspiration for it as Nepal plants more roots in the international community.

For now, we're lucky enough to see it with much of its antiquity and historic charm - and can chuckle at the local 'Walmart' food stall and eccentric 'Hard Rock cafe'.

Temples, tiger balm and tongba in Kathmandu

First stop on our trail: Nepal. Or more specifically, Kathmandu, which really isn't Nepal at all - rather its flamboyant and frenzied cousin knocking travellers, and wannabe trekkers, sideways.

After a whirlwind taxi journey that shook us out of our weary plane coma, we settled into our hotel with its rooftop garden and mountain views. As we are in the last month of the monsoon season in Nepal, the sky started to ink and heavy rain let rip on the city as we negotiated the 64 zips and clips on our brand new backpacks. The rain unveils a fresh, cooler city and we stepped outside.

Kathmandu is a feast for all our senses, pumping with traffic, people, and the occasional rabid dog. In the din of blaring horns (which, it's worth noting, don't compare in decibels or frequency to Indian horns), chiming cycle-rickshaws, revved-up engines, women, and even children, carrying impossibly heavy loads on their backs, tiger balm sellers and other retailers hawking their goods, we walked past shops selling just about everything, each adding their own flecks of colour to the vibrant paint pallet of Kathmandu.

Sharing beer and Tibetan momos (dumplings) on a rooftop in Thamel, we toasted our 12 month adventure as we looked out to the Swayambhunath temple and mountains beyond. Subhakamana!

The next day we headed for Durbar Square, the pulsing heart of the old town where the Nepali kings once ruled. Anchored with Hindu and Buddhist monasteries, standing side by side, it is a World Heritage Site that is treated as a busy market place, casual hang out and traffic thoroughfare - we took about five minutes to digest the scene.

Trying to shake off our would-be guides and trinket sellers, it soon dawned on us that something unusual was happening. Everywhere we looked there were hundreds, if not thousands, of women and young girls in luscious, red saris; men in traditional, checkered Nepali cloth hats; Sadhu holy men in orange and red robes with faces painted like African warriors - all flowing past us in a kaleidoscope of colour. We later learned it was Teej - Nepal's fasting festival for Hindu women.

Making our way through the heaving crowd of ruby red, with small pockets of dancing and drumming, we witnessed beautiful Nepali women, adorned with beads and sequins, queuing through the streets to give puja - praying for marital bliss, the well being of their husbands and

children and purification of their own body and soul.

We would occasionally stand on the edge of the crowd, overwhelmed, and let the whirl of colours and movement rush by, astonished to see rickshaws, handcarts, bicycles and even motorcycles forcing themselves through the scarlet throngs without touching a soul. We followed the queue out of the square and looked back in wonder at what we had just witnessed.

Welcome to Nepal!

The festival got us into the rhythm of the city and we drifted through the winding streets, encountering temples at every crossroad and chowk. We sheltered from monsoon rains atop the Swayambhunath temple and watched monkeys huddling together to keep dry; we headed to the wealthy district of Patan, once a fiercely independent state but now a quiet suburb of Kathmandu; we shared Tibetan food and tongba (a millet-based drink that is like Sake to the Japanese); we settled into Nepal and looked forward to the month that lies ahead of us.